


Lupus Capitolinus

by Violsva



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Animal Transformation, Case Fic, Doctor John Watson, Gen, Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2015, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-11 23:59:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4457525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violsva/pseuds/Violsva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A new life means a new perspective on one's abilities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lupus Capitolinus

**Author's Note:**

> For Watson's Woes July Writing [Prompt #29](http://watsons-woes.livejournal.com/1422382.html). Written in one day, though I'm not sure how.

When the excitable young man introduced himself with “You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive,” I did not tell him that the “Doctor” Stamford had called me was only a courtesy title now. No doubt, I thought, if we lived together he would be able to tell soon enough. I did make it clear that my income was small and not likely to become larger.

Sherlock Holmes did not ask about my injuries, and in return I didn’t ask about his strange profession, although sometimes I felt I was bursting with the desire to. At last he told me himself.

When I asked how he had known I had been in Afghanistan he said enough to indicate that he knew of my injuries, and therefore must know of my loss. He still did not ask what, if anything, remained.

Mages healed badly. Medicine had not yet discovered any better reason why than the old wives’ tale, that magic ran out of you with the blood. If that was so, almost all of mine had. For anyone but a healer, the remaining dram would be an impressive achievement. For me, it was a reminder that my true skills were gone.

But I didn’t need them, to follow Holmes on cases – my knowledge was enough to advise him, and he had the devil’s own luck for avoiding injury. I learned that he was not a mage, in fact, only interested in the topic as he was in everything else connected with crime. I grew nearly as interested in criminal matters as he was, and the loss of my healing abilities began to feel less sharp.

Then, one unusually cold winter night, a young girl slipped out an unlocked door and went missing on Hampstead Heath.

She was barely seven, her family’s house backed onto the park, her parents were frantic. Too frantic even for a telegram; her father sent Holmes a message as soon as they missed her, on silver paper that flew straight through the window-glass. It landed on his breakfast plate.

We went, of course, but Holmes confessed his doubts to me in the cab. “I don’t know if there’s anything I can do, if she is indeed on the Heath,” he said. He did not complain, as he might have for a less serious matter, that this was not complicated enough to be of true interest to him. “It has only just stopped snowing; her tracks will be covered. One man could not find her except by luck; it will need dozens of men, or dogs, and by the time that can be arranged it may well be too late.”

I nodded and said nothing. I think he took it for sorrow; in fact I was gathering courage.

Holmes warned the household that he did not want to raise their hopes in vain, but when they told him the police had been called he agreed to investigate what he could in the area while waiting for them to arrive. I followed him to the back door, and stopped him before he could start his investigations in earnest.

“We can find her,” I said. “I can find her.”

He peered at my face for a second, then nodded. “How?”

I inhaled deeply, then removed my overcoat and handed it to Holmes. He folded it automatically and set it on the doorstep, staring fixedly at me. I knelt in the snow, so I would not fall, and concentrated.

It hurt more than I remembered, but of course it had been years. The fur came first, a blessing without my overcoat. I remembered the trick of keeping my clothing with me, and then, once I had set the process in motion, the rest fell into place by itself. My body twisted into the once-familiar patterns, and shortly I rested on the thin snow, my paws a little cold but the rest of me warmer than I had been as a man. I looked up at Holmes, waiting for my senses to adjust – they always took a little longer, and I would need all of them for this.

Holmes was staring back at me, and I realized belatedly that I wasn’t sure I would have chosen to transform in front of him. “Watson,” he breathed. “Why didn’t you – how can you still -?” I bared my teeth, and he shook his head. “I’ll ask you later. Are you ready to start?”

I nodded, the motion feeling unnatural to a wolf’s neck, then got to my feet. I took a moment before I started walking to remember what four paws felt like.

The scent was easy to pick up. She had stayed by the door for some time, probably wandering around until her feet turned too numb to feel the cold, before venturing further. I cast further out and found a few trails, and settled on the latest one.

It seemed very simple to me then, like following a dark line marked on the snow. I had loved this once, I remembered, the clear directions of scents and the beautiful poetry of them combined, the world seen, or rather smelled, through an entirely different window. That was why I had cultivated the skill of transforming in University. Now I had a purpose, but I was surprised by the forgotten joy hiding within it.

I went faster than Holmes, but I knew he could follow my tracks in the snow. The girl was not far, but had slipped down a small hill, and curled up under a bush. She was asleep now, of course, and her skin was not much warmer than the air. I curled around her without thought and waited for Holmes to catch up. I hoped it was true sleep, and not unconsciousness. I could feel her heartbeat, though it was slow, and I thought I could hear her breathing.

Holmes arrived panting with exertion – perhaps I had gone farther than I thought – but barely hesitated before lifting the child in his arms.

I preceded him to the house to warn them that we had found the girl. I paused outside the back door, and transformed again. At least I could change in private this time.

My overcoat was still on the doorstep. I sat on the ground for a minute, holding it, before standing. The transformation had not used to take this much energy, but I was out of practice, and cold. I shook myself and stood to hammer on the door.

Holmes arrived as they were carrying what seemed like all the coverings in the house to the sitting room. He placed the girl – had I learned her name? Florence, that was it – very gently by the hearth, cushioned by two folded blankets. I examined her quickly.

I had not noticed her clothes as a wolf – I paid very little attention to vision in that form. But as well as her nightdress she was wearing shoes, though no stockings. I eased them off her feet and found that they had prevented at least a little of the frostbite. It was still bad, and her hands were worse, but not, I thought, beyond a competent doctor’s capabilities.

“She will need warming,” I said, as I had before Holmes arrived. “Warm drinks, wrap her in blankets, keep her near the fire. Send for a healer-mage at once for the frostbite.” If I had still had my healing I could have dealt with the frostbite myself, and set her to warm up from the inside. But if I still had my healing I would still be in the army, and she might not have been found at all.

“The police have just arrived,” said the parlourmaid. “I’ll ask if they brought one.” In a few minutes I was willingly ceding place to a doctor whose hands were already noticeably warm.

“Thank you, Mr. Watson, you’ve done admirably,” he said absently.

“It’s Doctor Watson,” said Holmes, who had been unusually unobtrusive while I examined the child. He frowned at the healer-mage, but I pulled him away. The man was busy, and I didn’t need defending.

I truly didn’t need it, I realized, as Holmes directed our clients’ congratulations to me (without specifically mentioning how I had found their daughter). I had hated that all the magic I had left was something I had thought of as a party trick, when I had been able to mend bullet-holes in minutes. I had had no use for it as a doctor. But the best healer-mage in the world would have been useless if the child was not found first.

Still, by now I was used to smiling in the background while Holmes accepted praise after a case, and though the reverse was amusing I was more relieved than otherwise when we got into a cab at last. Holmes still seemed fascinated by me.

“I had assumed you had little magic left after your wound,” he said.

“I do.” He raised his eyebrows. “That’s it. I can’t light a candle – well, I never could, I was a healer. But I have nothing at all left but the transformation.”

“Nothing but that,” he said, shaking his head. “My dear Watson, when we get home you are telling me everything.”

I laughed, because of course after cases I had said exactly the same thing to him a dozen times. He smiled back, and the realization I had had at our clients’ house bloomed. For him, for his work, even that crippled part of me was useful – more than useful. I placed my hand on his knee, and the corner of his mouth quirked up and stayed there, and we rode home, enjoying our reversed positions.


End file.
